A thin, twisting finger of lightning crackled quickly down from one of the ragged clouds, then receded as quickly as it came.

Yes... most appropriate.

He fingered his moustache, contemplating his next move. It would have to be sudden. Yes, sudden. But subtle. Sudden and subtle. Ha. He would strike with quickness, skill and ease. It would be easy. Easy with ease. There I go again. The full moon was revealed briefly through the ragged clouds above, then covered over again with the thick blanket of condensed water droplets. It was only spitting now, but the rain would soon come down harder, faster. That would be the right time.

Pity. Nobody likes to get wet these days. He pulled the collar up on his coat to protect his neck from the chilly night air. It was a bit nippy out. But nippy was good. Yes, I like nippy don't I.

He ran his hand over the smooth hilt of his sword. It wasn't a nice one. Just old. Old but useful. He had used it countless times before, and he would again. But he didn't take it out of its scabbard. No, not yet. It wasn't time yet. He had a while to wait. But he could wait. Oh, he could wait. He had waited for years. Why should an extra few minutes be a big deal? He could wait. He would. He had to.

Lightning split the sky again. It was almost time. Not quite, but almost. Not long now. Not long.

A distant thunderclap. There was more coming. This storm would last a while. It would last a while indeed. And it wouldn't be over until he had exacted every last bit of his mission that his conscience would allow. Yes. The storm was only just beginning.

Something moved through the trees. Or did it? It moved faster than the eye could move. There is was again. Flitting through the trees with ease. Trees. Ease. Ha ha.

He leaned against the tree, his wide-brimmed hat dripping with rainwater. He didn't draw his sword. Didn't so much as look at his pistol. Pistols were useless. Silver swords were not. He fingered the five wooden stakes in the back of his thick leather belt, then moved his hand to the crucifix hanging 'round his neck. 'Twas a shame, was it not? Yes. A crying shame. Souls lost forever, without so much as a chance to hear the name of Jesus. Well, they could hear The Name. It repulsed them. They would gag, reviled at the horrible sound of His name that so many held so dear. That alone was enough to make one want to die. But if you died here... you wouldn't really die. Unless you had Jesus. That was key. So many vampyre and lycan hunters out there killed in the name of God but were completely missing out on the real faith. Sure. You can do it in the name of God. That works. But you're really missing it. Thick-headed bastards. They really don't know the trouble they're in, do they. Pity.

The thing flitted through a space 'twixt two oak trees, and he caught a good glimpse at it. Vampyre. Female. Insanely attractive. Typical. Ruby red lips, beautiful, white features. Average. Young... strange. Good-looking physic. No doubt. Yes, a real female vampyre. And she was coming his way.

A smile flitted about his lips almost as fast as the female vampyre flitted through the trees. He waited a while. And a bit longer. And a few more moments. Then she stopped short. She had reached the clearing, and was on the other side of it. She smiled. He did too. He was well-aware of her intentions, but she was not aware of his. That was where he had the advantage. She began to advance, licking her lips. He was first to speak.

"Ciao." he said in Italian. "My name's Achille Bellomia. I'm from Italy."

I guess I will update again. This is a short, necessary addition, telling what the Sword does...

The Priest slammed the box down on the table. For a man of such a slight build, he was stronger than he looked. Samuel watched him examine the oblong silver box. Johannes nodded. "Yes, it does say the sword of Muhammad the Prophet. Let me see if I can open it..." He looked around for a lock. "Ah, here. Popular Arabic locking mechanism. Give me some time to crack it."

Samuel grabbed a bottle of whiskey and sat down.

Later...

Pop.

The box opened. Inside was a medium-sized, double-edged, sword, very ancient. It had strange carvings up and down the blade, the like of which Samuel could not understand.

The Priest examined both the sword and text closely. "Greek. It's Greek. Looks like the Cyprus variety, just off the Ottoman mainland. I'm a little rusty, but let me see if I can figure it out." He stared at it for about five minutes and then rubbed his hands together. "I think I've got it. Let's see... 'Whosoever inserts this in it's slot in the Temple of Hercules will have power over the minds of men. Ask, and they will obey, go, and they shall follow... write, and they shall believe.' This is what gave Muhammad so many followers! Wait! What's this on the hilt?" He carefully examined the letters on the very bottom of the sword's hilt. " 'Alexander.' "

Samuel dropped his bottle of whiskey, which made a loud shattering noise. "What?"

"Yes, Alexander the Great.The Alexander the Great."

"So Muhammad used Alexander's sword?"

The Priest looked at it in amazement. "Yes, the very same. If the Turks find out you own this, they will kill you without hesitation."

Samuel cringed. "What! This is horrible! Absolutely horrible! What should I do?"

The Priest shrugged and put on his hat. "Your call. I'd advise taking it to Cyprus and looking for this Temple of Hercules. I don't believe in pagan nonsense, but this sounds... almost believable. The main thing is to keep this thing out of the Turks' filthy hands. If the infidels use this... Well, let's just say prepare to get yourself a prayer rug."

Samuel gulped.

_________________LEGO Builder, Writer, Video-Gamer, Greaser, History Professor, Swordsman, and Military Collector. I am the Most Interesting Man in the World. :p

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